Crikey
So, I'm sitting there on the couch in and out of conciousness, and in between naps I think I hear my wife say something to the effect of, "Steve Irwin tribute ...", perhaps she said something about a Mazda Tribute, maybe one being driven by Steve and Irwin.
"That's nice," I say as I drift back to sleep. I spend the next 20 minutes fighting slumber, catching snippets and asking myself questions like, "Why the hell is one of the Wiggles in my dream?"
I finally come to and really start watching what turns out to be the saddest thing I've seen on TV in years, Bindi Irwin reading a tribute to her deceased father (and reading amazingly well, the educator in me must point out), and it happens: here come the tears.
Get it strait, though... I've never pretended to be a tough guy when it comes to watching things. I had a helluva time watching Armegedon, and couldn't sleep for 2 weeks after watching "The Day After" (late cold-war era nuclear holocaust movie to encourage responsibility with our atomic arsenal). In fact, I think I've cried over nearly all of these movies. So there I am, bawling my eyes out over the death of someone who, most of the time, I considered a complete whack job.
A few years ago, while doing my internship, I took on a part time job driving the tram at Flaming Gardens. During my break time, I'd go watch the otters frolic; I'd oogle the bobcats pace nervously about a habitat 1/10000th the size of their natural hunting area; I'd stare at the flamingos in their pond, leg cocked restfully, desparately trying to make verbal contact with every airplane that flew overhead; I'd go watch the rescued birds of prey as they made the best of their small aviaries. Then there were the aligators. Huge. Massive. Amazing. Always still and yet seemingly never satisfied in their small pond. As I think of it now, I felt O.K. watching them because I was separated from them by the bridge that went over their waterway and by the 8-foot tall chain link fence. They scared the crap out of me. Steve Irwin would have given his eye-teeth to dive over that fence and roll round with those big blokes. Not to prove he wasn't affraid, but to show us that we shouldn't be. I take my class to Shark Valley every year, because it meshes well with the science and social studies curriculum, and because it's just way cool. While riding in the back of the trolley with my class, I'll frequently break in to a Steve Irwin accent to tell them about a gator habit that the driver skimmed over, or just as a humorous break. The kids are rapt with attention when I do, and I've found that since his death, they are all champing at the bit to talk about him.
They know more about wildlife than I ever will, and it's all because of Steve Irwin. Crikey! Well done, bloke.
"That's nice," I say as I drift back to sleep. I spend the next 20 minutes fighting slumber, catching snippets and asking myself questions like, "Why the hell is one of the Wiggles in my dream?"
I finally come to and really start watching what turns out to be the saddest thing I've seen on TV in years, Bindi Irwin reading a tribute to her deceased father (and reading amazingly well, the educator in me must point out), and it happens: here come the tears.
Get it strait, though... I've never pretended to be a tough guy when it comes to watching things. I had a helluva time watching Armegedon, and couldn't sleep for 2 weeks after watching "The Day After" (late cold-war era nuclear holocaust movie to encourage responsibility with our atomic arsenal). In fact, I think I've cried over nearly all of these movies. So there I am, bawling my eyes out over the death of someone who, most of the time, I considered a complete whack job.
A few years ago, while doing my internship, I took on a part time job driving the tram at Flaming Gardens. During my break time, I'd go watch the otters frolic; I'd oogle the bobcats pace nervously about a habitat 1/10000th the size of their natural hunting area; I'd stare at the flamingos in their pond, leg cocked restfully, desparately trying to make verbal contact with every airplane that flew overhead; I'd go watch the rescued birds of prey as they made the best of their small aviaries. Then there were the aligators. Huge. Massive. Amazing. Always still and yet seemingly never satisfied in their small pond. As I think of it now, I felt O.K. watching them because I was separated from them by the bridge that went over their waterway and by the 8-foot tall chain link fence. They scared the crap out of me. Steve Irwin would have given his eye-teeth to dive over that fence and roll round with those big blokes. Not to prove he wasn't affraid, but to show us that we shouldn't be. I take my class to Shark Valley every year, because it meshes well with the science and social studies curriculum, and because it's just way cool. While riding in the back of the trolley with my class, I'll frequently break in to a Steve Irwin accent to tell them about a gator habit that the driver skimmed over, or just as a humorous break. The kids are rapt with attention when I do, and I've found that since his death, they are all champing at the bit to talk about him.
They know more about wildlife than I ever will, and it's all because of Steve Irwin. Crikey! Well done, bloke.
posted by M? @ 10:09 PM
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